


Taiyō no Shibari

by Starrie_Wolf



Series: Legend of the Sun and Moon (the Onmyōji series) [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Heian Period, M/M, Mikado!Ichigo, Onmyōji!Kisuke, onmyōji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-26 09:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17139527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Starrie_Wolf
Summary: Four seasons ago, Urahara no Kisuke moved to the capital to seek work as an onmyōji of the court. His employment thus guaranteed, it has always been his intention to lead a quiet life, setting up his household beyond the Ichijo Midori Bridge, on the very edge of Heian-Kyō.Emperor Ichigo, however, had other ideas.





	Taiyō no Shibari

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chaos_Greymistchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_Greymistchild/gifts), [Benevemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benevemi/gifts), [cyanteeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanteeth/gifts).



> \- Kisuke is modelled loosely after Abe no Seimei as depicted in the _Onmyōji_ movies, as originally written by Yumemakura Baku  
> \- Ichigo is even more loosely based on Minamoto no Hiromasa  
> \- Ichigo uses the royal ‘we’  
> \- Mikado = Emperor of Japan specifically  
> \- Onmyōji = The equivalent of a warrior-priest
> 
> In addition, a lot of artistic licence has been taken in view of the English-speaking audience, especially:  
> 1\. Ichigo will be keeping his personal name even after he becomes emperor, denoted by _-no-miko_ and _-no-mikoto_ respectively, even though by right the emperor should be addressed by his courtesy title after ascending the Chrysanthemum Throne  
> 2\. All epithets have been removed: this is not _Tale of Genji_ ; this is a fic and readability is the primary concern
> 
> Title means "The Binding of the Sun".

_Cock-warmer_ , they call him.

Kisuke is well-aware of the court’s collective opinion of him, but as he rarely attends court functions and the emperor is magnanimous when it comes to such matters (when it comes to _him_ ), he does not truly care.

It’s hard to care, when the door to his quarters slide open in the dead of the night, long after the servants have all turned in for the night. It’s hard to care, when the bedclothes rustle and lift aside, and a firm muscled chest presses against his back. It’s hard to care, even when there’s a weight upon his back that brings to mind a _nogitsune_ , save for the fact that something with such evil intent would never have made it past his wards.

Kisuke might not attend court as often as the rest of his cohort, but he is still an _onmyōji_ of the court, and unlike many of those charlatans in the ranks his powers are real. No demon, nor evil spirit, nor restless dead could have gotten past _his_ defences.

The title of emperor may have been divinely-appointed, but Ichigo-no-mikoto is still very much a mortal man, and that mortality is never more apparent than when he’s buried to the hilt inside Kisuke, his fingers digging into Kisuke’s shoulders and his entire wiry frame trembling with need.

He always leaves before dawn.

They do not speak of it in the light of day. There is no morning-after letter, no invitations to a private audience, no gifts of plentiful farmland or rich fabric or sparkling jewels. Indeed, other than the unusual clemency he is accorded for his frequent absences from court, Kisuke receives no preferential treatment.

He has never pushed for more.

The emperor is of age but unmarried; he has no wives nor concubines, nor any apparent interest in one – much to the frustration of the political jockeys with marriageable sisters and daughters. Kisuke has never asked if it was because of _him_.

They say a mikado’s favour waxes and wanes, as does the ephemeral faces of the moon. But the cherry blossoms have long yielded to leaves of autumn-gold, and yet he still hears the step of Ichigo-no-mikoto upon his veranda the night before each rest day, faithfully without fail.

* * *

It is an ordinary afternoon, several seasons after Kisuke’s first appointment to the court, after he has made a name for himself with both his strange reclusiveness and his accuracy of prediction, when Ichigo-no-mikoto first graces Kisuke’s house with his august presence.

He’s known, from gossip and his own experience, that Ichigo-no-mikoto is quite unlike other emperors. Or perhaps the strangeness begins from his father, the Retired Emperor Isshin, who had declined all arranged matches for his heir and then abdicated the moment the then-Ichigo-no-miko came of age. He has been cloistered in seclusion at Ise ever since, it is said, never having recovered from the loss of his beloved consort.

So gossiped the court, and so it must be somewhat true. But no matter how strange an emperor, Kisuke has not expected to sense the wheels of the royal palanquin over the Ichijo Midori Bridge, or to hear the herald announcing the emperor’s presence at his gates. An emperor does not _visit_ , he _summons_.

He hurries down the garden path, flicking the doors open with a wave of his hand. The herald, the ox driver – indeed, the entire motley gathered before his gates leap back in shock, all except one man.

Ichigo-no-mikoto simply nods at him, seemingly unbothered. His steps are unhurried as he climbs out of the palanquin.

Bemused, Kisuke bids him welcome, expecting to be informed of some matter the emperor wishes him to attend to at once.

Instead, Ichigo-no-mikoto strides forth, as though he means to _enter_.

It’s only long experience that lets Kisuke keep his shock from showing visibly. He folds his hands behind himself, gesturing subtly, feeling the paper dolls scattered around the house flutter to life – and must shut his eyes at the sudden drain on his power. It shouldn’t…

Ah. He’s forgotten to eat that day again.

He hides the momentary weakness by turning and bowing deeply, gesturing for the emperor and his retinue to proceed within.

Ichigo-no-mikoto surprises him again by gesturing at the rest of them to wait outside. “If Kisuke-dono wishes me ill, he need only have failed to stop Genkaku’s mad plot last moon, or the snake-demon before that, or the wrathful spirit of the scorned maiden targeting the Minister of the Right before _that_ ,” he points out drily when his guards protest, and they fall silent suspiciously easily. It’s obvious to anyone with a discerning eye that they are protesting out of a sense of obligation, and not because they truly wish to enter.

“I will send for refreshments,” Kisuke says to fill the silence. He pretends not to notice the relieved looks the members of the retinue are sending each other behind Ichigo-no-mikoto’s back, nor the surprised look he is receiving from the emperor himself.

The surprise fades into something more assessing as Ichigo-no-mikoto sweeps down the garden path and catches sight of the veranda, already set up with refreshments for two. A glance at the dishes on display tells Tessai has gone all out in the kitchen, even with the scant few minutes he has had to prepare.

Kisuke must really remember to hold a night-sakura viewing session for all his shikigami in gratitude. Perhaps tonight, after Ichigo-no-mikoto’s departure – there is a directional taboo towards his house tomorrow, which means no courtiers will be sending messengers to ply him with requests.

Ururu melts soundlessly out of the shadows as they take their seats upon the veranda, but to his credit Ichigo-no-mikoto barely startles, and there is only the slightest hesitation before he extends his cup for her to fill.

Her job done, Ururu fades back into the shadows, as noiseless as before.

“Are all your servants shikigami?”

Kisuke cannot hide his astonishment at this comment. “How –”

Ichigo-no-mikoto smiles, soft and wistful. “The court does not gossip about our mother?”

No, not as such. Kisuke thinks back to what he has heard of the late Empress Consort Masaki, but does not remember anything save for whispers that she was killed by a demon that someone had sent after her nine-year-old son.

“She was born Kurosaki no Masaki,” Ichigo-no-mikoto says, taking a sip of his sake. His eyes watch Kisuke steadily over the top of his cup.

Slowly, Kisuke sets his own cup down. It clatters a little far too loudly against the wooden boards of the veranda, but he can hardly muster up the energy to care about at the moment.

The Kurosaki were – _are_ – a prominent family of _onmy_ _ōji_ , one of the few branches that can claim direct descent from the Quincy Clan, the first practitioners of _onmy_ _ōd_ _ō_ back during Emperor Yamamoto’s time, back when the capital was still being built at its present site. He hasn’t realised any of the Quincies had survived the Night of the Demon Parade.

But it seems like a daughter did, after all.

Kisuke lets a genuine smile touch his lips. “I’m glad to hear of it.” He doesn’t ask how she survived, or what knowledge she had been able to pass on. This is not information Ichigo-no-mikoto should be obliged to provide to a stranger.

Ichigo-no-mikoto inclines his head in acceptance, and they sit in companionable silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.

That is, until Kisuke thoughtlessly calls a scroll to hand, wanting to check a passing thought, and instead of shying away at the casual display of power Ichigo-no-mikoto brightens at the sight.

“Is that an original?” he asks, scrambling to read over Kisuke’s shoulder.

He should really stop being surprised by Ichigo-no-mikoto, Kisuke thinks, and nods in confirmation. Kurosaki no Masaki’s blood must be pure, indeed, if even her half-Quincy son is blessed with the Sight. He points his folded fan at the tiny symbols etched at the corner of the scroll, invisible to mortal eyes. “Yes, this is the personal sigil of Ishida no Sōken, a notable _onmy_ _ōji_ during the days when the capital was still in Heijō-kyō.” He hesitates slightly, and then extends it towards Ichigo-no-mikoto. “I believe, under the circumstances, it will be most appropriate for you to have this.”

But Ichigo-no-mikoto is already shaking his head. He’s sitting so close that Kisuke can smell the perfume in his hair, something rich and woodsy. “You’re better equipped to store it safely. Our servants will not know the first thing about preservation sigils, and we fear they may accidentally destroy such a priceless treasure.”

Kisuke’s heart flips over in his chest. He has not expected – “Surely mikado-sama will wish to examine the scroll further, at his leisure,” he manages to say.

“Then we will just have to return another day,” Ichigo-no-mikoto declares with all of the finality of a decree, and as if to drive the point home he nudges the scroll a little closer to Kisuke.

There is a cage of rabbits in his chest seeking to escape. Kisuke covers it with a sip from his cup. “If that is what mikado-sama wishes.”

A brief frown flits across Ichigo-no-mikoto’s face at his words. It’s not his place to enquire further, however. Kisuke casts around for something else to say, looking out at the courtyard, and only then does he realise how dark the sky has turned.

“It’s getting late,” Ichigo-no-mikoto agrees. His gaze is pensive as he stares up at the waxing moon in the sky.

Kisuke is loath to part with the best company he has had in seasons, but courtesy prevails. “Perhaps another day, then.”

Ichigo-no-mikoto nods, but the motion seems distracted, like he’s waiting for something. “We will be going then.”

“Yes.” Kisuke rises to walk him to the gates, but is waved off. He settles back upon the veranda, no little bemused, watching Ichigo-no-mikoto set off down the garden path until he turns out of sight. Several long moments later, the boundary wards over the Ichijo Midori Bridge chime with the passage of an ox-cart’s wheels and the chatter of a retinue.

Kisuke busies himself with rerolling the ancient scroll back up and returning it to the box it is normally stored in, making sure the preservation wards are still functional.

The camellia bushes rustle a warning, and Kisuke very nearly drops the scroll box in his hands. He turns around. Surely Tessai must be mistaken –

Silhouetted against the darkness of the garden beyond is Ichigo-no-mikoto, like a vision from a fevered dream.

Kisuke opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

Ichigo-no-mikoto swallows visibly, his throat bobbing. “So, uh.” He fidgets, shattering any faint hope Kisuke bears that this is an apparition. “We are afraid that our staff have already departed for the night, and thus we must behove to impose upon your hospitality a while longer.”

Kisuke stares blankly at him. Nothing in that sentence makes any sense – there is nothing, save perhaps an evil spirit, that could have driven the personal staff of an emperor from his side if he does not wish for it to be so – not to mention Kisuke has just sensed the departure of the palanquin, _after_ he has gone out to presumably speak to his retinue.

Ichigo-no-mikoto ducks his head sheepishly and wets his lips.

 _Oh_ , Kisuke thinks, and raises his fan to conceal his expression. Well, this is… unexpected.

“Certainly, if it would please mikado-sama,” he responds on autopilot.

A blinding smile spreads across Ichigo-no-mikoto’s face, as bright as the sun.

* * *

Kisuke remembers the rest of that night only in hazy snatches of memory. Ichigo-no-mikoto shifting so close to pore over the next scroll that he was practically breathing against Kisuke’s ear. The rustling in the garden that was his shikigami laughing at him. Trying not to blush as he cleaned himself in the bath, reasoning that _well, if he was mistaken – no one ought to know_.

The way his bedchamber door creaked as _someone_ drew it half-open in the darkness, the heat of another body laying down behind him. The chill of the spring night as deft hands loosen the belt of his sleep-robe and slip between his legs.

Ichigo-no-mikoto had known exactly what he was doing.

Somehow, that had settled something in Kisuke’s chest. The idea that it wasn’t just a bout of youthful experimentation, a fulfilment of some mad curiosity; that Ichigo-no-mikoto had, impossibly, looked upon _him_ and saw something desirable – he didn’t last long after that.

In the morning, he was gone.

And that should have been it, except Ichigo-no-mikoto comes back, and then keeps coming back. Sometimes for the whole afternoon, sometimes long past nightfall, but always the day before each appointed rest day.

It’s a routine Kisuke finds himself, however reluctantly, growing used to.

* * *

He’s woken up by the crow of the roosters.

Kisuke stretches, knuckling at his eyes. It’s only when he sits up and nearly knocks over a dish of oil by his futon that he realises – it’s a rest day.

His heart skips a beat.

Improbably, the first thought that comes to his sleep-addled mind is, _so he has finally conceded to the collective wisdom of the court_.

Reason asserts itself quickly. Ichigo-no-mikoto is not the kind of man to fall prey to rumours; Kisuke has never once spoken of present-day court in their time together, much less tried to influence him on a ruling. And if he has truly fallen out of favour… Ichigo-no-mikoto will have sent a note.

Immediately, he is ashamed for ever having entertained the thought; but more pressingly, if it was not Ichigo-no-mikoto’s intention to miss their standing appointment last night, then…

Kisuke summons every shikigami in the house in a bid to get dressed faster and is out of the house in record time.

He keeps his eyes peeled as he passes through first the Kenreimon gate and then the Shōmeimon gate, but it seems to be business as usual at the Throne Hall and the Chamberlain’s Office. If any personal misfortune has befallen the emperor, it is not something the court at large is aware of. Kisuke forces his pace to slow, to match that of those around him. If there is a traitor plotting against the emperor, no sense alerting them.

The imperial residences lie beyond the Throne Hall, somewhere he should have no business being, but much to Kisuke’s surprise not a single guard steps forth to stop him from proceeding any further. He hesitates at the doors of the Seiryōden, well-aware of the lack of human traffic permitted this far, but still the guards ignore his presence.

Clearing his throat, Kisuke announces himself.

The door slides open almost immediately, as though his arrival has been anticipated – or perhaps, hoped for.

There are dark circles beneath Yuzu-hime’s eyes and her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, he notes, before he manages to avert his eyes out of courtesy.

“My lady,” he tells the floor, his hand tightening upon his fan. He does not know what has prompted Yuzu-hime to greet the door with her wardrobe in such disarray and without even the benefit of a fan to shield her face, but it must be serious indeed.

He takes a deep breath. There is no reason for the sister of the emperor to come to the door in such distress, save for – “Is mikado-sama well?”

“Ichi-nii is fine,” Yuzu-hime hurries to reassure, but the way her voice wobbles is hardly comforting. “It’s…” she trails off, but he hears her step upon the wooden boards, and realises she means for him to enter.

He casts the nearest guards another glance, but they are as immovable as stone.

His guide is already disappearing down the corridors when he turns back around. Faced with no other recourse, Kisuke sets foot into the imperial residences. Despite her petite frame, she is already far ahead of him, and he has to hurry to catch up.

Yuzu-hime slides one of the doors open, and Kisuke forgets to breathe.

No, not forgets. He strides forwards, and at a gesture all the braziers of incense scattered around the room snuff out, out of their own accord.

The slumped figure in the middle of the room, whom Kisuke had taken to be asleep at first glance, stirs. “Who,” Ichigo-no-mikoto snarls, turning his head.

And then he goes silent, blinking blearily up at Kisuke like he’s wondering whether Kisuke is a hallucination.

Kisuke hardly notices. The reason for his absence last night is immediately apparent, lying ashen upon the futon in the middle of the bedchamber. He drops to his knees beside Karin-hime’s bedding, careless of the hem of his robes, and reaches for her pulse.

He’s hyper-aware of the fact that Ichigo-no-mikoto is utterly silent beside his shoulder.

A curse, of course, that much is obvious at first glance. But…

Kisuke shakes his sleeves out of the way, forming three quick hand signs, and then presses his index and middle fingers to Karin-hime’s Third Eye.

There’s not even a flicker of movement.

Interesting. Which means…

Movement at the corner of his vision abruptly reminds him that Ichigo-no-mikoto would most likely want answers, and Kisuke awkwardly looks up, an apology ready on his tongue.

The words die unsaid.

Ichigo-no-mikoto looks _awful_ , his skin a sickly sallow in the candlelight, his hair a veritable rat’s nest. In contrast to the rest of him, his eyes burn feverish bright, pinning Kisuke like a wolf would its prey.

Kisuke swallows.

Ichigo-no-mikoto’s eyes dart lower briefly, and then back up. He doesn’t verbal demand an answer, but Kisuke can feel the weight of expectation in his gaze anyway. Caught like a butterfly in a spider’s web, he gropes helplessly for something to say. There’s something he meant to ask earlier, something important –

“Who prescribed the incense?” he finally remembers, noticing the fallen braziers scattered across the room.

Ichigo-no-mikoto blinks slowly, like he too was surfacing from a reverie. Now he looks like a man instead of a predator, a man who has not slept the whole night to sit vigil over his younger sister. “The head onmyōji. Aizen-dono.”

Kisuke hums. Well, he can see why another onmyōji may have thought so, but – “A spirit-attracting incense will not work,” he explains tersely. “Her spirit is not lost. Without a target, it will attract nothing but incense demons.” He flicks his fingers at one such demon, a tiny speck that could’ve been mistaken for a stray spark if he hasn’t been looking for it. “It runs the risk of –”

“– burning the place down,” Ichigo-no-mikoto finishes heavily. “Yes, I know.” He tips his chin at Kisuke, the meaning obvious. Where is his sister’s spirit, then, if it is not lost?

Kisuke touches her throat and crown chakra points again, half-hoping he had simply misread the turbulence trapped within the first time. He has not, of course. “There is a demon attempting to possess her body, and she is engaged in battle with it.”

The growl that tears itself out of Ichigo-no-mikoto’s throat does not even sound human. Kisuke’s heart skips a beat as the emperor slams a hand down on the tatami between them, and he can’t help but shy backwards as Ichigo-no-mikoto leans closer.

He doesn’t ask if Kisuke’s sure, like any other court noble would when faced with bad news.

Bit by bit, Kisuke watches Ichigo-no-mikoto pull himself back together, until the only sign of his fury is the death-grip he has on the bedding.

“What do we do?”

 _We_ in the plural form, not _we_ the royal singular.

Kisuke gets to his feet, drawing his right sleeve back with his left hand. There is already brush and paper in the room, good. “I will place a protective realm around us and then exorcise the demon from her body.”

Ichigo-no-mikoto’s lips thin. “Let’s do this.”

At a gesture, the brush dips itself in the leftover ink, sketching out a set of talismans. Another gesture sends them hovering in position around the room, forming a pair of interlocked pentagrams on the floor. One for Karin-hime, one for the two of them.

Kisuke sweeps his fan over Karin-hime, beginning his chant. It tugs on his spirit core – he’d arrived just in time, Karin-hime is almost completely exhausted – but Kisuke pours himself into the exorcism, and soon enough black smog begins to escape from Karin-hime’s parted lips.

There’s another tug that he registers as a clash of cymbals in his skull, and Kisuke is momentarily so disconcerted that the demon slips through his spiritual grasp –

He snaps his fan shut, brings it to his lips, and takes a moment to gather the full force of his power. Whoever it is who sent the demon, he or she is a powerful onmyōji, well on par with Kisuke himself. But Kisuke is not without his own tricks after having lived for so long, and he abbreviates the chant into as short a form as he dares to risk in order to maximise the amount of power infused into each word.

It’s not working, he can tell. The other onmyōji is either more powerful, or has had more time to prepare, or both. He’s not going to win a match with brute force alone, not when his opponent has already set up the counter.

He counts off the breaths between each clash, putting just enough effort into it that the other onmyōji does not suspect anything is amiss. Some part of him admires the way Ichigo-no-mikoto does not interrupt, even when the black smog starts to reverse its direction.

On the last line, he changes the exorcism spell he’s been repeating all along to something far more primal, a spell he can be certain his opponent will not have prepared a counter for, and slams the rest of his spiritual power into those three syllables.

For a moment the black smog hovers between Karin-hime’s lips, as though confused – and then it _explodes_ out of her mouth with the force of a pellet-seed. The realm protecting them lights up as it comes under attack, shaking with the concussive force, but Kisuke cannot muster up the energy to reinforce it right then.

With each assault, the black smog grows bigger and more definitive in form, until Kisuke can make out what shape of demon it is.

Ichigo-no-mikoto suddenly cries out loud, and Kisuke spins around –

A flash of crimson light streaks past him, followed by a high-pitched shriek from the demon. It rears back, claws poised to strike, but in the next instance an entire barrage of that same light forces it away from Karin-hime.

Kisuke turns his head halfway, keeping an eye on the demon, until he can see the source of that light.

No, not light, he realises.

 _Arrows_.

Ichigo-no-mikoto is holding a recurve bow almost as tall as he is with all the confidence of an expert huntsman. It’s a solid black, save for the dark red patterns across the wood – no, Kisuke corrects himself after another glance, not real wood. Even as he watches, another arrow coalesces out of ambient spiritual particles, is notched to the bow, and then set loose upon the demon.

Kisuke really needs to stop being surprised by this man.

He draws in a deep breath, centres himself, and then snaps his fan.

The blow sends the demon into the far wall, and the accompanying deluge of arrows must finally make it aware that there is no easy snack to be had here. With one final piercing shriek, it shrinks in size, until it is able to fit through the tiny window slits, and escapes.

Kisuke watches the window for another moment to make sure it’s gone, and then slumps against the wall to survey the situation.

The bow vanishes from Ichigo-no-mikoto’s hands. He’s panting a little, Kisuke notices, his face flushed with exertion and his brow beaded with sweat. Kisuke is abruptly very much aware of the fact that the other man is clad in only a thin under-robe, one that bares a generous amount of forearm and calves, and that his belt is likely one light tug away from coming loose.

“Is it done?”

With some effort, Kisuke tears his eyes from the tantalising flash of bare thigh. Karin-hime’s face is no longer bleached of colour, the rise and fall of her chest natural and even. He staggers to her bedside, putting his fingers to her pulse just to be sure.

“It is done,” he confirms, letting go of her wrist.

“Okay,” says Ichigo-no-mikoto, and then he slumps against Kisuke.

Kisuke freezes, but Ichigo-no-mikoto doesn’t stop there; he folds his legs to the side and slides down, until his head is pillowed in Kisuke’s lap.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, barely stifling a yawn. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, like an afterthought.

There is nothing Kisuke can say in response to that.

Ichigo-no-mikoto rubs his cheek against his thigh, eyes falling shut.

Kisuke is left staring at the far wall, pathetically aware of the fact that he’s alone in a dimly-lit bedchamber with a man who’s one step away from naked sleeping in his lap, without a single chaperone – the unconscious sister does not count.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to settle himself enough to meditate.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t quite succeed.

Kisuke pulls off his hunting costume with some difficulty – miraculously, Ichigo-no-mikoto does not awaken even when moved, he must have been awake the entire night – and is in the process of spreading it over the man in his lap when the door slides open.

Yuzu-hime pokes her head in, surveys the scene in silence – her sister, sleeping on the futon; her brother, sleeping in Kisuke’s lap; and Kisuke himself, halfway through draping a robe over him.

The door slides shut again.

“Will you –” Kisuke begins, and then realises he is addressing a closed door.

None of this is proper; but then, none of the events this morning have been within the realm of propriety, so perhaps another transgression is not so serious.

He closes his eyes and falls into an uneasy meditative trance.

* * *

He’s drifting, floating in the realm between dream and reality when his senses alert him that there is movement in the physical world. Kisuke opens his eyes, an apology ready on his tongue –

It’s Karin-hime.

Dark eyes stare up at him, narrowed faintly in suspicion, but then they catch sight of Ichigo-no-mikoto lying in his lap, and inexplicably they soften.

“… Ichi-nii,” she croaks.

It’s as loud as a whisper, but improbably, Ichigo-no-mikoto’s eyelids begin to flutter, like he’s so keyed to her voice that even something as quiet as this can awaken him.

“Karin,” he says, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes. “You’re awake.”

Kisuke averts his eyes out of courtesy at the genuine _relief_ in his voice, the small but genuine smile blooming across Karin-hime’s face. It’s too intimate, he shouldn’t be here, intruding like this, and if only Ichigo-no-mikoto would let him up then Kisuke would gladly leave the room.

“How are you feeling? Do you remember what happened?”

Karin-hime bats her brother’s hand away from her brow, her gaze turning pensive. “The white-haired spirit I told you about… he was trying to warn me off, scare me away. But I did not understand, and did not heed his warning to stay away, and that’s how the demon caught me.”

A white-haired spirit? Kisuke has always assumed Ichigo-no-mikoto is the only one of the Kurosaki no Masaki’s children to bear the Sight, but now he sees that he is mistaken. And if Karin-hime has inherited it, has Yuzu-hime as well?

“The demon was using him as a lure,” Karin-hime says heavily, “knowing that I alone of the retinue could see him.” Her mouth, unadorned by rouge, twists bitterly. “I have not seen this demon before, but I know what it must be. Ichi-nii, did you see –”

“Yes,” Ichigo-no-mikoto interrupts. In that instance, he doesn’t look like an emperor, he looks like a man with a vengeance, his eyes lit with fire from within. “I saw it, and I recognised it. It was Grand Fisher.”

Grand Fisher. Even Kisuke knows of this name, despite his brief time at court. The demon that killed the Empress Consort when Ichigo-no-miko was only a child.

He can see how an onmyōji as accomplished as her could have fallen, now. Any single one of Ichigo-no-mikoto’s arrows would have been enough to slay a lesser demon, but Grand Fisher had simply shaken them off as if they were mere mosquito bites upon his hide. Somebody had cast a protective realm around it, somebody as powerful as Kisuke. Alone and trying to protect her child, it is no wonder that Kurosaki no Masaki – no matter how powerful she had been – had perished.

“Did you see who sent it?”

Slowly, Karin-hime shakes her head.

Ichigo-no-mikoto utters a sharp, furious curse, tuning his head away.

Kisuke yields to the urge to stroke a hand through his orange tresses, as if he would a wild animal. “Actually, the fact that mikado-sama drove it off may be a blessing in disguise.”

Ichigo-no-mikoto makes a rumbling, questioning noise against his thigh, and Kisuke almost loses his train of thought. “The more powerful the spell, the more exacting the price it demands from the caster – especially if it is broken. I imagine, if mikado-sama is to summon a message-boy and inquire as to whether any building has just gone up in flames, the identity of the culprit will soon be clear.”

For a moment, Ichigo-no-mikoto looks like he wants to flip their positions over and pin Kisuke against the floor.

Kisuke blinks.

And then Ichigo-no-mikoto is up in a flash, striding out of the door and calling loudly for someone to bring him a runner-boy.

Kisuke is left staring dumbly at the ajar door. His first instinct is to follow, but as he tries to get up his legs remind him painfully of the fact that they have been holding this position for far too long, and he nearly topples over.

When he looks up again, Karin-hime is watching him with something akin to _approval_ in her gaze, for some reason he cannot fathom.

“Ichi-nii’s room is two doors to the left of mine,” she tells him abruptly, as though coming to a decision. “I will have someone send the noon rice over. He will be glad to share that meal with you, methinks.”

* * *

He’s soon interrupted by a servant bearing a tray laden with multiple small saucers.

“Mikado-sama sends his regards, and bids Kisuke-dono to break his fast first.”

It’s a meal for two, Kisuke can tell immediately, but to ask him to eat first...

He folds his hands in his lap and lets his mind wander. It’s been literal centuries since he’s been this thoroughly outclassed that he can’t help but _need_ to know who their enemy is, not just for his own sake, but also for the emperor’s. The more powerful an onmyōji, the more distinct their signature of their power is, and Kisuke before today would’ve sworn he knows every onmyōji of this calibre still alive, but the man on the other of the fight feels nothing like any of them.

“We told you to eat first.”

Kisuke opens his eyes.

Ichigo-no-mikado is standing at the door. He’s still barefoot, but some time in the interim he’s pulled Kisuke’s hunting costume over his sleep robe for decency’s sake.

Kisuke tries not to notice how well his clothes fit Ichigo-no-mikoto, and fails miserably.

Ichigo-no-mikoto huffs, shaking his head. Without a hat to hold it in place, his long hair fans out over his shoulders, although someone’s taken the time to braid it loosely so that it’s no longer flying all over the place. He walks into the room, slides the door shut, and drops gracelessly onto the tatami mats.

“If you don’t start eating, all of it will be gone,” he warns, snagging one of the bowls of rice.

For a while, the silence is only broken by the click of chopsticks on ceramic.

“It’s Aizen.”

Kisuke pauses, a piece of saba halfway to his mouth.

“The perpetuator,” Ichigo-no-mikoto clarifies. His mouth is pressed into a thin, flat line.

Kisuke nearly drops his chopsticks. “ _Aizen-dono_?” The man, although sufficiently competent for the post of Head Onmyōji, is hardly powerful enough to control something like Grand Fisher.

He thinks back to Aizen-dono’s power, the few times he has encountered it, mild and illusive like flowing water.

Illusive, and perhaps, _deceptive_.

“There is no sign of Aizen himself, nor any body found in the ruins of the house.” Ichigo-no-mikoto sets his empty bowl down, his chopsticks on top of it. “He’s probably made a run for it.”

Kisuke forces himself to nod, even if a large part of himself can still barely believe it. For any onmyōji of the calibre Kisuke has sensed, escape would have been child’s play. A few talismans on his person, ones to remove scent and sound and another to make the eyes slide off the wearer, and Kisuke would have been able to stroll naked through the middle of the capital on market-day without anyone noticing him, if it pleased him to do so.

“Aizen has served the Chrysanthemum Throne for three generations,” Ichigo-no-mikoto says abruptly. “It is unlikely that this is the last we have seen of him.”

That, Kisuke certainly agrees with. Whatever Aizen-dono’s end goals are, he has been planning this far too long to give up after one defeat.

“Will you stand with us against him?”

Kisuke is about to agree when he belatedly notes the meaning of that sentence, the way Ichigo-no-mikoto is peering up at his face through his lashes.

“I –” he manages to say. He doesn’t know what he’s expected, but it isn’t _this_. “I wouldn’t dare to presume.”

Ichigo-no-mikoto squares his shoulders, like a general marching off to war.

“At first, we thought it but a passing fancy for you. But the leaves have faded to gold and the cranes arch their wings to the south, and still you do not bar us from your bed. We thought –” He glances away, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck “– we thought, perhaps therein lies your answer.”

Kisuke blinks. Surprise doesn’t even begin to cover – there hasn’t been the slightest indication –

“What would you have us do?” Ichigo-no-mikoto demands. Even his ears are a flaming red now. “It is only every _other_ appointment that you loudly scorn the vapid nature of love poetry. Should we still pen you a morning-after letter, knowing the truth of your feelings – or a fan?” He gestures at the fan lying across Kisuke’s lap. “The balance, the grip – that is clearly a _tessen_ of exceptional make. How can we in good faith offer a fan of simple wood and paper, and expect anything but a resounding rejection?”

He plucks at the sleeve of Kisuke’s hunting costume. “Even the finest silks from Korea will only have been wasted; t’is the season where life begins to fade, and yet you persist in wearing the greens of yesteryear – never mind the diamond motif, which has not been fashionable for at least eight seasons.” He shakes his head, looking both exasperated and fond. “You’re a difficult man to court, Urahara no Kisuke.”

Put that way, he…

“Mikado-sama –”

Ichigo-no-mikoto scowls fiercely. “And _that_! Will you just use ‘Ichigo’ already?”

Kisuke opens his mouth to protest, to explain he cannot possibly deviate that far from etiquette –

Ichigo-no-mikoto actually sighs, his shoulders slumping. “You’ve been taking my cock up your ass for the past two seasons; under the circumstances, the least you can do is address me by given name.”

He…

“And the _Kōryōden_ is yours, if it would please you.” Ichigo-no-mikoto is staring determinedly at his empty rice bowl, his cheeks a blazing red.

He _means_ it. The _Kōryōden_ are a set of rooms for a favoured consort, and these in particular are located directly behind where the emperor sleeps.

“Naturally, we would not presume for you to give up your current dwelling entirely, nor your current occupation,” Ichigo-no-mikoto tells his utensils. “We understand these mean much to you, and do not seek to curtail your movements. We offer these rooms merely in the hope that Kisuke-dono will see the court as not only a conduct of his duties, but also a place where he is welcome, and perhaps on some days acquiesce to stay the night.”

It’s a generous offer; far too generous, in fact, and if it were anyone else Kisuke would be questioning their motives.

But not this man.

He can see the up-and-down heave of Ichigo-no-mikoto’s shoulders getting more obvious the longer he fails to give an answer.

Kisuke grits his teeth and closes his eyes. His heart is thumping in his chest, but it feels like the good kind of excitement, the kind of emotion he gets from a successful difficult exorcism or a high-level spar.

He opens his eyes.

“It is a generous offer,” he begins, and holds up a hand before Ichigo-no-mikoto could interrupt, “but it would please me indeed to accept, Ichigo.”

When Ichigo-no-mikoto smiles, it is as if Kisuke has captured a piece of the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> The Kokiden would have been more official, but the Kōryōden seems far more intimate, and anyway Kisuke does not make for a very good principal wife.
> 
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